Sara Verstynen

Extermination

Nine years old, shirtless 
in summer. I rise 
from my room’s shag carpet, 
starvation diet a j-hook 

through my sight. The old tuxedo 
cat, heavy with babies, ferries fleas
into the small house. Home
buckles with craving. My sister & I

gouge our ankles with gnawed 
fingernails stained by horseweed 
& blue kool-aid, blood blooming
through white crew socks ringed 

yellow & pink. Unclothed
I stay cool & light, weigh myself 
each hour, fish face the warped air,
scratchy floor. I watch light

filter through broken panes, heat 
bent with moisture, hum of cul-de-sac 
games. I stand to look, swipe 
the window with a palm, glance down. A swarm 

of fleas dot my underwear, one hundred
open jaws, I’ll swear later. I slap 
them off, run circles, a figure-
eight. One clings to my hand & I pinch 

it dead, decapitated. I want to scorch
the bugs & disappear. I pull on
track shorts, ramrod my spine,
board the scale again. A body 

measured against words. Two doors 
down, twin girls, bold in temporary 
suits of lean youth, say I am big-boned. 
Blind beasts at my feet want blood. No 
one gets what they need. 

Sara Verstynen is a Korean American poet, essayist, and book reviewer. She is based in Chicago, IL.